Two not-so-old buildings block my north,
north-east and north-westerly view.

One a vacated shop;
The other a sky-climbing and space-eating folly.
Roost, convention and courtship-hall to a Cloud of pigeons.

Yet in the space between,
Both my eyes can fly;
Past road, weather-post and line of ash trees;

Past houses, lights and a pub once called Cattle market:
Past Dales,
St. Anne of Stanley
And the windmill whose sun-lit blades twirl above an allotment:

To a small blue line that can only be the horizon;
And an old hospital clock tower,
That projects like a palatial helm,
Into an ever changing,
Yet always beautiful,
Stretch of the realm named Sky.

. . .

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